


all its own but somehow also yours

by DanseDan



Series: GBU Lupita AU [3]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Diners, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Teen Angst, dollars triplets au, just a lot of diners, might have like... mild nsfw in further chapters, trans!blondie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanseDan/pseuds/DanseDan
Summary: Tuco had once jokingly asked him, in a booth in some dingy little locale they’d found while driving through Nebraska, if he knew the location of every single diner in the country.
Relationships: "Blondie" | The Man with No Name/Tuco Ramirez, Angel Eyes/"Blondie" | The Man with No Name
Series: GBU Lupita AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013763
Comments: 7
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Tuco had once jokingly asked him, in a booth in some dingy little locale they’d found while driving through Nebraska, if he knew the location of every single diner in the country.

“Seriously, Blondie, this is the middle of nowhere! I thought we were screwed ‘till we got to South Dakota… y verga, didn’t you say you’d never been up here?”

“I haven’t.”

“then-?“

“just had a feeling, ‘suppose.”

Tuco had laughed and shook his head- convinced himself that Blondie’d read it on some map in a rest stop maybe, looked it up somehow beforehand or heard from other truckers- but it was true. He couldn’t help it, years of hopping one place to another (and certainly leafing through his fair share of resources- hell, he still got maps sent up every few months from down in Mexicali, Joe’s scrabbly and amateurish handwriting taking up most of the page with comments and reviews and crude doodles) had left him a bit of a sixth sense, almost like dowsing, somehow.

There was something about it that felt like an eggshell- a blank slate so particular it felt tailor-made, somehow organic and alive, like an animal coming up and curling at your feet, all its own but somehow also yours. Four walls and a roof, when all he had was the steering wheel, and the closed-in cocoon of a booth as a kid when a house or a schoolhouse was too many ceilings and too little doorframes.

When he was real young- not just kid-young, but cub-young- he’d loved the feeling of crowding into the vinyl seats, last one up to the one long blue-glass window of his hometown diner. Feeling the warmth of his older sister at his side, the bright blonde hairs on her skinny arms and her nice going-out clothes soft on his shoulders, the air con cold on his neck as he stuck his nose right up to the window and pretended to be on a submarine, or a space-rocket. The people walking about to do their daily errands Martians, mermaids- creatures to closely study for the sudden give of far and foreign existences. Their little habits, quiet expressions, details in the way they wore their clothes. He could spend hours watching people float by- but was usually interrupted much earlier than that, by mama weakly reminding him to finish eating, his siblings getting into an argument or dad getting some or another strike of inspiration and suddenly demanding they go back home so he could work again.

There were a couple times he got his wish though; summers, when Joe and Manco went away to summer camp someplace he wasn’t allowed to tag along, and dad and mama working through the day and too busy to watch them. Though it incurred long and torturous afternoons of swimming classes and silently begging to keep his shirt and pants on in the water even if it made them get all heavy, Ellie with her heavy novels sitting off to the side shooting apologetic glances at the teacher while he trained his squint and stink eye; After all that, they got to go to the diner alone.

And they’d sit in the best spot in the house- right up at the back corner, with a window that bent all the way around- and order milkshakes and a plate of fries and sit around until dinnertime watching together. He was the lookout, watching for and pointing out the most interesting people, and Ellie would have her notebook open, writing and helping him come up with stories for each one of them. And the windows were so wide that he could get right up to them and only see the street around him, blur the edges of his vision and forget the cold and the water and the tight squeeze of the ponytail on his head, just see and listen. And Ellie understood sometimes he needed quiet, didn’t nag at him like the others did about not looking at her when they spoke. They’d go on and on for hours, all to the backdrop of the 3-per-nickel jukebox playing way too loud, stuck on last decade’s top-40s and twangy guitar, sitting ‘till it was ink-dark out and mama would pull up in the car and drive them home again for dinner and TV and bedtime.

And when everyone had gone to bed those nights, he’d sneak into his brothers’ room to pilfer Manco’s bass guitar- a Christmas present gone mostly untouched- and drag it into the empty quiet of the living room. He’d sit cross-legged and put his ear right up to the glossed brown body and pick the strings till his fingers ached and bled, poking around to find the sound of music and ending up with mostly holes until he realized he could bring the whole line down and play it warm and deep, a little off.

In the warm darkness of the wooden room, he could forget swimming lessons, and missing out on dirt and boats and guns and hiking, and the school year with all its pains slowly approaching, just focus on the skimming, jarring, over-and-over motions of getting the notes in line and humming quietly along. After a while, he didn’t feel the cold of night breezes, or the fuzzy carpet beneath him, or even the strands of too-long hair on his nape and back. Just the cold varnish against his cheek and the warmth of his own vocal cords.

Until one night, the lights came on.

Shocked, he jerked his head towards the doorway and was greeted by the lumbering silhouette of his father. Stocky and soft-edged in his usual patched-up dressing gown, dad was staring down at him through rounded spectacles with a sort of wry amusement. Even half-asleep, his eyes had that sharp critic’s gaze and intellectual look, and all Blondie could do in response is stare back defiantly, wrap his arms around the guitar.

“who taught you to play the guitar, child?”

“no one.”

He kept looking up at his father, who’d taken off his glasses and started wiping them on the tails of his dressing gown like he did whenever he was pleased about something.

“put that back.”

He was about to protest, until-

“and change to go out.”

Hesitantly standing up under the weight of the instrument, he couldn’t take his eyes off of his father.

“…where are we going?”

And turning back with what could almost be called a flair, all dad said was-

“the diner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Four sore feet make it into the white tile of the diner, and the flat gray-black of dawntime sky stays behind them. He remembered it being the first time he’d noticed the sky at dawn- it only made sense that it would have a color and a tone to it, but he’d been shocked all the way from home by its sudden reality and the stark, expressive blurring of its ripped-thin clouds and shut-off streetlights. Skies were a running theme- constant amusement, on the road. Sometimes familiar, sometimes exotic, other times so wide and vast they made him ache, and he'd hang his head low, paranoid about that falling-down feeling that suddenly ripped through him. That day the sky was sharp and new, making even the blueish artificial ceiling light of the death-cold diner felt warm by sight.

Dad walked ahead of him, nodding for him to take a seat at one of the tall stools of the bar as he shuffled towards the silent jukebox in the back, his light mumbling joining the white-noise quiet of the few early morning clients’ eating. Climbing onto the stool, he let his feet dangle in front of him as he psyched himself awake. The view there was completely different from his usual, safe observation behind the booth’s windows, the subjects so much more real in the lessened distance.

And of course, there was the question of whatever dad intended, coming here so suddenly.

“…these goddamn… back in… tch- Marvin!”

His father’s thin, accented voice met with the cook’s usual gruff, tired baritone. (a mainstay of this story, when he bothered to tell it those excited first few times in interviews, his terrible attempt at an impression, which Tuco often scolded, claiming "you're shit at accents 'cause you're too caught up trying to look good when you've got to make a fool of yourself")

“Whaddaya want?”

“You still have Ochs on here?”

“yeah- s’remember it’s misspelled. Says ‘Fillip’, with an f.”

Father's grumbling, a clink, and suddenly the speakers came to life with the woody sound of acoustic guitar- three soft, long notes, suddenly bounding into arpeggios with the entrance of a fine-toned neutral voice.

_hear the sledges with the bells, silver bells…_

It was nothing like the usual music on the jukebox, twee and straining with audible smiles, it was realer, warm. He strained to listen and could feel his father sit down beside him, smiling slightly and nodding along to the fast and constant rhythm, drumming thick fingers on the linoleum of the counter while he ordered his coffee. He seemed almost excited, leaning over the cup with a bit of a spring to his motions, anathema to his usual even stoicism. That sort of man he was- who saved his words for his novels instead of his family, as much as he really did love them- suddenly gone and turned wide-open, smiling smartly back accross his shoulder to Blondie, like a longtime friend. He remembered the moment by repeating it, repeated it because of music, that perfect, pinpointed moment where the notes became less riddle and more painting, less a lifeboat and more of an ambition, but in the moment he was almost as much enchanted by the sudden personhood granted to the marble statue of his father, then picking through the menu gleefully beside him. 

“what do you want?”

“…pancakes.”

He never noticed as a kid, but father was always unknowingly spoiling them, too- he was foreign, and stubborn, and for all of mama’s best attempts and good wishes he’d refused to learn all that much about what was expected from the family and the town, mostly going off his own judgement. Mama was the mind behind his dresses, and everyone’s plans for the summer. She was the one who kept a gun under the kitchen drawer and had taught them how to use it, made him sit and help with cooking in the very same room every spare couple days. She was ever-present, her love like a cozy sweater overwarming you throughout a stay in church you can't take off 'till hours later. But dad was different. Not often all there, but tethered by bold and passionate moments of inspiration, moments like this morning.

Moments like their trek, after breakfast, into the newly-white full-blown early-morning and to the music shop at the edge of town. Through the bright, metal grates of the corridors, packed with instruments sparkling in brass and glossed wood and bright tacky plastic, reeds and picks and packs of strings. He felt a bubbling excitement at the pit of his chest walking past the violins and flutes and saxophones, almost breaking into a jog to reach the back of the store- where hung up on a wall were guitars. All different colors, finishes, sizes- pale, wood-red, black or white, green and pink and bright sky blue. Big and small, some seeming almost his own height, all beautiful and beckoning. He slowed down once they were close in sight, slowing to appraise each one and only peripherally aware of dad trailing contentedly behind him, and the store attendant starting to converse with him. His eyes searched the wall, jumping back and forth, pacing.

Until he found the one.

It was a beauty- white, smooth body cool to the touch, with black seams and neck striking against it. He reached out to strum it, and the sound was sweet and bright, tinkling addictively below his fingertips. Holding it up to himself, he caught a glance of the sight in the mirror- still so much to blur over, the striped linen dress behind the guitar body, thick gold hair long enough to peek under the straps- and slowly felt all of his usual worries falling away at seeing his hand on the pickguard, touching the grooves of the embossed rattlesnake on the smooth celluloid. It felt more than right, more than natural- it felt necessary.

“seems to me she likes that one.”

Peeling his eyes away from the guitar, he looked back up at his father, leaning thoughtfully next to the attendant. Their eyes met quietly for a moment, until he saw dad’s face breaking into a slight smile before he shook his head and stalked towards the register. It would be his- this guitar, this piece of wonder and glory, all his. Eager, he reached down once again and tried to wrap his head around the new set of tones under his command, shifting fingertips and nails until- the same few simple chords from just that morning, hesitantly strummed in turn awhile, and a sharp, proud peal of laughter from his dad, hands on his hips and gesturing now, back to him.

“you see? This child…” smiling back, a quiet pride bright on his face like understanding, like he was seeing past all the flesh and bone and brains into his heart and soul and knew something about it, like he'd lived through it himself. Dad never got to see him grow into it, but he would wonder every while if that was the bond he saw back then, the bond between two artists and the understanding of that need. 

Whatever it was, that same warm feeling of small understanding carried him through home, clutching tightly onto the soft new case of his guitar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! had a bit of trouble figuring where to cut it off, but next chapter is more home life stuff and the start of uh. actual dramatics lol so I decided that it was worth making this one short to avoid making it very long and kind of decentralized if that makes any sense. the song is in fact The Bells by Phil Ochs! Gotta love old lefty folk musicians, yes I am biased. Also yes Blondie's guitar is a reference to his gun in the OG films. Fun images


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOKAY sorry this is short and uh. bad.

He’s still pretty shit at swimming- seeing as he spent the rest of that summer insistent on staying home with the guitar, practicing and playing and bursting blisters till his hands were irrevocably disgusting, full of joy. By the time his brothers got home from summer camp he was on to big and better things, playing his way through albums they had laying around at home, riffing off the songs into new and often stranger versions, the start of stray melodies not yet composed rattling around his head. No longer constrained to the dark and quiet of the living room at midnight, his guitar made itself heard at odd and sudden times, morning to next day’s dawn, coming mostly from the attic, and occasionally serving as accompaniment to mama’s labors in the kitchen, playing at replacing the radio by trying to work out whatever song would please her whims.

It was even better then. Mama loved to sing- sang sweet and strong along to his skittish accompaniment. She’d try to coax him into singing along with her, smile pleadingly and laugh right in between the phrases, or drag anyone passing by to join in her cajoling- Ellie usually by proximity, but Joe was better for enthusiasm, knowing just what jokes got him worked up enough to give up and drown him out. Rarely, they’d drag Manco to join in, hesitant, but with a deep and handsome voice that always shut him right up in embarrassment, wishing he could steal it like he’d stolen his guitar over the summer.

That last year, there was nothing that seemed to please his mother more than those small kitchen choruses. Much later he’d sit on the same counter, then bare-handed, and he’d try to sound out if there’d been any sadness in her songs, found that he could remember close to nothing other than the smell of cooking, slightly burnt, the endless weeks of watching the door and waiting after, and the feel of scratchy poly-wool and patent leather sitting in the booth to get the news that she was gone.

The whole thing had been quiet, almost understated. Three visits to the doctor in a month, a pile of frantic knitting and a saccharine goodbye drawn out too long for any usual errand and filled with teeth gritting insistences of “you know I love you baby” and “darling, be a good girl and work hard, alright?” and if he could remember he would kick himself that he had never noticed, past that murky feeling in the moment, that she was intending to go off and disappear. Not when her shoulders heaved with silent sobbing on her way out to the driveway. Not when Joe, pale faced and quiet, scrabbled down the stairs and asked after her. Not when he followed out the door with an overstuffed purse and a lame excuse.

Not until a full day later. Hungry, cold, waiting outside a phonebooth while Ellie called the cops and called their father, off for work somewhere. Not until a quiet conversation makes it click, as the three of them remaining crowd into a booth inside the diner, woozy, far too late at night.

“do y’all remember… well, a couple years ago, now- do y’all remember when I wanted to get a cat?” and Ellie’s voice was bedrock, sure all the way through and only barely trembling, already too old in a young girl’s mouth. “well, cat’s’ve got all sorts of interesting instincts, to survive, you know? It’s like- some people say they never really got domestic. They’re still like wild animals, in most ways.”

She was picking at the varnish on her nails- dark red, matching with mama’s- as she spoke into his seat across the table from her, eyes pointed forward like a toy soldier in position. Manco next to him is looking out the window, slouching back. All he did then was watch, look forward, and try to watch his sister’s face.

“well cats- cats do this thing, when they’re hurt… or sick, or- or- or- dying,” she continued, almost laughing in a grimace, her breathing slow and short and too deliberate. “they go away and hide.”


End file.
